Toilet Trauma.

I wrote this for the UEADrop, but it got rejected, so here I am posting it where I, the editor, say yes!

Ok, so I’m a pretty firm female participant in the gender arena. I separate my socks from my knickers, I always wash behind my ears, between my toes (no cabbages growing there thank you very much) and if I’m mad with a man – friend, and they ask “what’s wrong?”, I claim that “I’m fine” (through gritted teeth), and then get annoyed they haven’t solved the problem. We all try to hide from the facts, but we know this to be true. A more scientific definition of my femininity is that I’ve (fingers crossed) got all the right level of chromosomes, and my apples and pears are in the right places. It’s a confirmed gender identity.

Or so I thought. These clear markers take on a murky colour when I am confronted with 4 doors. I am of course referring to the 4, practically identical doors of the Blue and Red bar toilets. Cue my face looking at a similar level of concentration as solving a Rubix cube, standing on one leg, attempting to recite the alphabet, listing all 300 varieties of goat, and making a poached egg – all at the same time and backwards. Tricky business I’m sure you’ll agree. Please also factor in that its high chance that I’m completely widdled and probably doing my ‘come get me’ eyes to the skirting board. Or, in fact, more shamefully, blindingly sober and nipped over to quickly spend a penny in between the rounds of a launderette sesh. Both scenarios are pretty high on the tragic scale.

You would think that the makers of UEA (God? The Government? Domino’s Pizza?) did their market research into how much students drink, at last count over half (52%) of male students and nearly half (43%) of female students drink more than the government’s daily unit guidelines (3-4 units a day for men and 2-3 for women) . So we’re talking stonking high amounts of alcohol, that make us stonkingly disorientated, and either gender confused or definitely perplexed. You forget what hangs where and how, when confronted with these doors.

Take today for instance. My laundry had 10 minutes left. I thought “O, here we go”, as the familiar alarm that nature needed to call, started to ring. I dashed over to the Blue bar, streaking past a man doing weights and a woman painting her nails. They seemed to have a pretty good idea of where they belonged, and I smugly agreed with them, until, without a moment to loose, I skid, wheeling past a man operating a bbq and a woman being a bad driver, in front of the 4 doors. All sense of certainty slides from my face, heart and soul. Who bloody knows? They all look the same! People are staring, I can hear the warbled karaoke judging me, as in my moment of abject panic I can’t choose, won’t choose, don’t know where to go. My bladder makes an alarming lurch, and I just have to, on pure instinct hope for the best, as I scramble blindly towards the door. I open it.

It’s the same trauma every time. And I’m not going to tell you what was behind that door.